


'Dean finds Sam in a room full of bodies'

by themegalosaurus



Series: SPN episode codas [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Episode Tag, Episode: s12e01 Keep Calm and Carry On, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2019-09-06 17:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: Coda to 12x01 (imagining Dean and Sam's reunion)





	'Dean finds Sam in a room full of bodies'

Dean finds Sam in a room full of bodies, his wrist still handcuffed to the twisted skeleton of the chair to which he must have been bound. Evidently, Sam turned it into a weapon; the room is scattered with splinters of wood and the metal of the frame is misshapen, the narrow stripe of its legs imprinted in red-purple bruising on the flesh of the men and women sprawled unconscious around. Amidst their silent forms, Sam’s slumped on his knees, breathing heavily, staring down at the floor. Dean pauses in the doorway just for a second. Unguarded, Sam is letting his exhaustion show. 

As Dean pushes the door all the way open, it scrapes across the uneven concrete of the floor. Sam lifts his head. His muscles are already starting to tense, eyes blazing defiance through sweat-dampened, dirt-tangled hair. When he recognises Dean, though, his features slacken into disbelief. 

“Sammy,” says Dean, rough, and Sam’s mouth moves as though to frame a word, but he doesn’t speak. Silent, he backs away, still on his knees, the chair dragging loud beside him. His eyes don’t leave Dean’s face. 

Fuck. Dean had forgotten – in the hurry to find his brother, Dean had half-forgotten that Sam thinks him dead. “It’s me,” he says now. “Amara didn’t kill me. I didn’t kill her. It worked out.” 

For a long moment, Sam sways there, kneeling, looking at Dean. His head moves, just a little, a tiny nod. And then he’s folding forward, suddenly, all the tension gone out of him, curling over and in on himself with a quiet keening groan that makes Dean’s stomach do somersaults; that sends him stumbling forward to fall on the hard floor in front of Sam and run his hands open-palmed over his brother’s bent shoulders, to curl his fingers into Sam’s hair and coax his head upright and kiss him on the cheekbone where an open cut is bleeding slow. 

“Sam,” Dean says, quiet and hurried, and his hands and lips are on Sam’s cheeks, his jawline, the exposed skin where his shirt is torn. Sam is shaking now, a full-body tremor, and Dean babbles like he’s soothing a startled animal. “It’s okay, Sam, I got ya, I got ya, Sammy, I’m here.”


End file.
